


Static

by dancinguniverse



Category: True Detective
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:44:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1437133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinguniverse/pseuds/dancinguniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marty thinks it went bad in early 2002, but Marty's a pretty unreliable narrator, and Marty has no idea what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Static 静电](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1464139) by [Virgil (alucard1771)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alucard1771/pseuds/Virgil)



> And a big thanks to Molrowing for beta-ing Part 2 for me. Remaining mistakes are my own stubbornness.

Rust is already at the office when Marty gets in. His jacket is over his chair and his computer is on, though the man himself is nowhere to be seen. Marty feels a twinge of guilt. Maybe he should have called him. Maggie had told him to, but Marty had shrugged her off. Rust is a big boy, and if he wanted to talk about it, he knows Marty’s number. Maggie said that was fine, but Marty should bring him to dinner tonight anyway, since a man shouldn’t be alone after a thing like that.

Marty turns on his own computer and pours himself some coffee while it boots up. He checks his email and writes up some expenses from the previous week because they’re short and he’s thinking about it. He bullshits with Cathleen at the front desk, but he keeps looking back at Rust’s empty seat. By then it’s ten thirty, so he refreshes his coffee and heads down to the records room.

Rust is there of course, staring at what look to be old tax records. He looks okay though. If he had a bad night of it, it doesn’t show; his shirt is unwrinkled and his eyes are tight but not bloodshot. Marty drags up a chair and leans over Rust’s shoulder before settling into it. Yep, tax records, for one of their open cases. And Rust smells, reassuringly, like nothing but cigarettes and deodorant.

“How you doing?” Marty asks carefully.

Rust glances up at him, a quick flick of his eyes, and back down to his papers. He starts stacking them back into various folders he’s strewn around the table. “Edward Fontane’s body shop ordered all of a grand in parts and supplies last year, but somehow made more than my yearly salary—or yours, for that matter. Whatever he was into, stands to reason it’s what got him killed. Think we should go check it out.” He’s already shoving his chair back, and Marty frowns, grabbing his mug and following him up and out of the room.

“Okay,” he says, lengthening his stride to keep up with his partner. “Listen, when did you get in this morning?”

Rust doesn’t slow down. “Early,” he says. “You coming or not?”

“Fine,” Marty says, but it’s to Rust’s back, so he quits his hurrying and walks at his own damn pace. He stops by his desk, drains his coffee, and grabs his keys, leaving the mug on his desk. He stares down at the rest of his work, covers it with more folders, and heads outside. Rust’s waiting for him by the car.

He glances sideways at Rust as they head out of town. “You wanna talk about it?” he asks, once the AC has kicked in and he can roll the windows up again.

Rust is pulling his characteristic stare out the passenger window, like the warehouses and asphalt expanses are worth his undivided attention. “Talk about what?” he grates out without glancing away, and Marty’s been dealing with his shit long enough to know that Rust is too smart to play dumb, he just doesn’t like an imprecise question.

“Laurie was on the phone with Maggie pretty late last night,” Marty says, because plowing through Rust’s moods is second nature by this point. “I think saying she’s upset would be an understatement.”

Rust has his elbow braced on the door, thumb rubbing over his lower lip. “Probably that’s right.”

Marty waits a second. “And?” he prompts.

Rust glances over but declines to answer. Marty concentrates on passing a semi, then goes back to watching Rust again. “Listen, it’s none of my business, but—“

“But why stop now?” Rust asks, and damn if he can’t turn the snide attitude to eleven when he wants. “You and Maggie been on some kind of mission since I met you to pair me off, like you got any enlightened position on the subject. It’s always easier to fix somebody else’s life than your own, is that it, Marty?”

Marty’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I’m trying to be your friend here, asshole.”

“No, you’re trying to comfort yourself.” Rust’s voice is certain, flat and unhurried and relentless. “Because Laurie and I were supposed to be some kind of proof that you two knew what a healthy relationship looks like, and it turns out you’re not any kind of expert, because why would you be? Doesn’t take a genius to look at you two and figure the only reasons you’re still together. Maggie’s the best you’re gonna get and you know it, and she’s in too deep to admit defeat now. So you pretend the world has room for your romance schemes, and you go on double dates because you don’t like each other enough to go out alone together. You set us up and then pat yourselves on the back when it works because you think it means your relationship is somehow validated. Like seeing someone else being happy means the possibility exists that you could someday achieve some kind of infantile happily ever after. Which is the biggest lie yet, because there’s no end to any of it, no mister or missus right who’s gonna make you anything you weren’t already. Truth is, people just stumble through life until they find someone who’s nominally compatible for them, and me and Laurie finished that run. You want to keep on pretending you got what you need with Maggie, you go right on.

“But no, Marty. It didn’t work for me, it wasn’t going to work, and I’d like for us to do our fucking jobs and stop talking about this. You don’t get to fix me, and Maggie neither, just like no one’s gonna fix any of your myriad fucking issues.”

Marty glares at him, only barely remembering to watch the road. “Fuck,” he says slowly. “You know, it’s hardly a wonder you ain’t more popular with the ladies.”

Rust turns back to the window, jaw tight.

“Laurie said you didn’t want kids,” he says, because it’s what he was going to say before, and he doesn’t know how to respond to all that other crap.

“I had a kid,” Rust says roughly, hand clenched tightly on his knee. “It’s about the last fucking thing I’d do to someone I care about.”

Marty could have told her that three years ago. Saved them all a bit of heartache.

 

The meeting with Fontane’s manager, Krieger, is useless. Probably he wouldn’t have talked anyway, but Marty didn’t really look into the details Rust dug up in prep for this meeting, so he’s not much help, and Rust just keeps staring the man down, all stony face and grim questions, and that doesn’t make anybody feel like chatting. After a half hour of questions that go nowhere, they give up and leave the shop, walking back towards the car.

“Wait here,” Rust says, and Marty keeps walking for half a second before the tone of Rust’s voice registers, and he wheels around to follow Rust back towards the shop.

“What are you doing, Rust?” he asks, and it barely comes out as a question, because it doesn’t need to.

“Wait in the car,” Rust repeats. “I’ll be a minute.”

Marty hesitates, but Rust is still walking away, and in the end he lets him go. Krieger’s a shitheel from all appearances, so that’s not really his concern. He guesses there are worse ways to work out your emotions, and hell, sometimes Rust does this on a perfectly normal day, so who’s Marty to stop him? It’s stifling inside the car, so Marty leans on the hood. There’s shade from an oak tree whose roots are ripping up the edge of the parking lot, so Marty relaxes and waits.

The sounds of a scuffle from inside take a bit to die down, and then there’s quiet. Marty watches the clouds pass by overhead, stares at the faded sticker on his windshield and tries to remember if he’s due for an oil change or not. He’s about to go see what’s taking so long when Rust emerges from the shop again. There’s blood all down the side of his face, and he’s holding a rag to his eye. He stumbles a bit when he leaves the curb, but then he recovers and walks briskly back to the car.

“The hell happened in there?” Marty asks, straightening and peering towards the shop. No one else emerges, and it’s too dark inside to see clearly from where he stands.

“I got a name,” Rust says, jerking open the car door. “Let’s go.”

Marty opens his door, but hesitates, looking back again towards the shop. “Everybody still breathing in there?”

“Nothing permanent,” Rust answers, which isn’t very reassuring, but Marty sits down and starts the car. It’s Rust’s left eye that’s messed up, and he hisses in sympathy when Rust adjusts the rag and he sees the cut along his eyebrow, the dark bruise already forming. The cut is still leaking blood pretty quickly, and Rust presses the rag back to his eye, leaning back against the headrest.

“Jesus,” Marty says.

“Just drive,” Rust says, sounding tired.

Marty does, because sticking around that parking lot doesn’t seem like a good idea, and it’s hot as hell inside the car with the engine just idling. They hit the highway, the AC kicks in again, and Marty starts sneaking sideways looks at Rust. Rust has both eyes closed, rag still held to his bad one. Eventually Marty slows down and pulls onto a dusty turnaround underneath a billboard and kills the engine.

Rust slits his good eye open. “Why are we stopping?” he grunts.

Marty doesn’t both replying, but gets out and goes around back, pulling a first aid kit and a bottle of water out of the trunk. He continues around the car to Rust’s door and opens it, holding up the kit and beckoning Rust out. “Come on,” he says. “Let me see it.”

“You got some mother hen shit going on today,” Rust remarks, but he gets himself out of the car and steps over to sit down slightly on the edge of the hood. He tilts his head sideways for easier access, gingerly removing the rag and studying the bright red stain that’s soaking into it.

Marty gives a low whistle at the sight and takes the rag from him, wets one of the cleaner edges with the water, and sets about removing the worst of the blood from Rust’s face. Rust watches him unnervingly for a minute through his good eye before he gives in and closes his eyes, ceding to Marty’s ministrations. He’s as gentle as he can be, but the cut starts seeping blood again anyway. After a minute of feeling like he’s not doing anything too useful, he slides his other hand under Rust’s ear, thumb angling his jaw for a better purchase. “Sorry,” he mutters, and goes back to wiping up the blood. Rust swallows against the contact, throat jumping under Marty’s touch, but doesn’t respond. When Marty’s got the worst of it gone he switches to the little alcohol swabs. It’s quiet where they are. There aren’t any other cars on the road, so the only sounds they hear are birdsong and the swishing of wind through the grass.

“He got you good,” Marty murmurs as the blood comes away and the cut itself becomes more visible. “He wearing a ring or something?”

Rust grunts in assent. His hands are braced behind him on the hood. He flinches slightly at the first brush of the alcohol against raw skin, and Marty finds himself stroking his thumb on Rust’s jaw in absent comfort as he works. The cut is still leaking blood sluggishly, but Marty tapes it up and hopes it’ll hold, tracing Rust’s eyebrow with his thumb to make the bandage stick.

Rust’s hands flex at his sides. Marty hasn’t moved his hand, and he’s supposed to let go, back up and walk away, but for some reason he puts his other hand on Rust’s waist and settles his weight on his heels, planting himself there. “You’re a mess,” he says, and the muscles in Rust’s stomach twitch beneath his fingers.

“Marty,” Rust warns, and Marty leans forward, covering Rust’s lips with his and breathing in the scent of the alcohol swabs, and blood, and Rust. He’s not thinking about it, it’s just instinct, the feeling of something rough between them all day suddenly peaking up sharp and smooth, like the line between pain and pleasure. Rust breathes in sharply. His mouth opens to Marty, hungry and biting, and it’s good, so Marty pushes forward, pressing Rust into the car with his body. Rust makes a sound in the back of his throat, and that’s really good, sparking something dark and hot in the pit of Marty’s stomach. Rust is tugging Marty’s tie loose, hands grasping at his face, shoving underneath his jacket. Rust yanks on his belt, drags the heel of his hand over Marty’s crotch, and Marty arches up into it at the same moment his brain checks back in, and he breaks away with a curse, stumbling backwards and wiping at his mouth.

“Fuck,” he spits, turning away from Rust as quick as he can. “Fuck!” He kicks the wheel of the car. Marty’s breathing fast, and he walks to the edge of the road, straightening his tie and taking a few deep breaths. He doesn’t know how that just happened. He didn’t mean it, didn’t mean for it to happen, that wasn’t even him, and what the fuck was Rust doing anyway, coming back at him like that? Marty rubs at his temples. It was an accident. Poor impulse control on his part, and Rust has had a shit day, so Marty’s just going to overlook the whole spectacle. It doesn’t matter. It was a fucking idiotic thing to do, both of them. That’s it. He breathes in, and walks back to the car.

Rust is still standing where he left him, unmoving against the passenger side door. Marty can feel him staring, but he doesn’t meet Rust’s eyes. “Get in,” Marty snaps. “We’re going.”

Rust doesn’t say anything for the first ten miles, and Marty thinks they might be on the same page, and then Rust just says heavily, “Marty.”

“Shut up,” Marty says savagely. “For the love of Christ, Rust, shut the hell up for the rest of this car ride. Maybe rest of the fucking day.”

For once, Rust does.

Marty drops Rust off in the CID parking lot and leaves again, ignoring whatever look Rust fixes him with when he climbs out of the car, because he’s driving. And if he finds errands and odd jobs to do away from the office for the rest of the day, it’s not avoidance, it’s just making some goddamn space, is all. It’s the responsible thing to do.

When he gets home, Maggie asks him whether Rust is coming along behind him, already with an extra plate set on the table, and Marty has to admit he forgot to ask.

“I’ll call, it’s not too late,” Maggie says, rolling her eyes and reaching for the phone.

“He’s not our teenage daughter crying over some breakup,” Marty snaps. “Leave the man be. He’s fine.”

Maggie pauses with one hand on the phone, still holding a tomato in the other. “Did you talk to him?” she asks skeptically.

“I—yeah, we talked,” Marty says, because it isn’t a lie. “Trust me, he wants to be alone.”

Maggie shakes her head, returning to her half-chopped salad. “Would you want to be alone?” she points out, and Marty smiles to cover his uneasiness, pulling the iced tea out of the fridge.

“Honey, Rust is not like other people.”


	2. Chapter 2

Rust beats him in to the office the next morning. He looks up when Marty drops his sunglasses and keys on the desk. Marty focuses on draping his jacket over his chair, turning on his computer, and Rust eventually turns back to his work. His eye looks worse today than yesterday now that the bruising has settled in, and a quarter of his face is puffy and discolored. Marty thinks about saying something, but instead he bites his tongue and turns away to get some coffee and bullshit with the guys. 

He’s legitimately busy most of the day with meetings, no reason to run into Rust. When he gets in the next morning, Rust has left a note that he’s out running down the name he got from Krieger. Marty leaves him to it.

The third day Marty thinks Rust must still be chasing down suspects. But just before lunch Rust emerges from the records room and stands in front of their desk, a stack of folders in his hand. “We on speaking terms again?” he asks, pitching his voice low enough not to start the office gossip mill churning. 

Marty keeps typing doggedly away at the report he’s working on. “Don’t know what you mean.”

Rust drops the files in front of Marty. “Not Edward Fontane doing the shipments. His brother, Michael, doesn’t officially work for Ed, but he runs the books sometimes, and he’s got a coke habit the family didn’t know about. His wife owns a gun matches the bullets from the scene. I’ve got enough for the warrant. I’m taking it to Salter. You with me?”

Surprised, Marty looks up, meeting his gaze. The swelling has gone down around Rust’s eye, but the colors are more lurid, the bruise spreading over his cheekbone. Underneath the bruising, his eyes are red rimmed from lack of sleep or worse. Marty can’t tell and won’t ask. “You cracked it?”

“Ran it down yesterday, spent this morning making sure the paper trail fit.” Rust is buzzing like he does sometimes on a case when everything’s moving, but he waits while Marty pages through the files. 

It takes a few minutes to read through the important bits but finally Marty sits back, impressed. “Good job,” he says honestly, and grins up at Rust before he remembers not to. Rust’s face loosens into something that’s almost a smile in return. Marty pushes his chair back, and they go into Salter’s office together. They get the go ahead, and Rust thumps Marty’s shoulder once in excitement. Their suspect is in cuffs by the end of the day. 

They go back to normal, give or take. Maggie pushes again to have Marty invite Rust over for dinner, but he puts her off. He doesn’t want to see her fawning over him. Better to just give it time to settle. They trade insults over writing reports, and stop for coffee and lunch when they’re out on cases. Rust puts in even more hours than normal, but it’s not like he’s got a lot else going on these days, so Marty doesn’t worry about it. It’s the same way he doesn’t worry about the way Rust’s handcuffs sit in the small of his back, or the red patch of sunburn on the back of his neck after a long lunch break at a roadside stand. 

One day as they’re driving, Rust stares out the window and says, “I drove to Laurie’s after work last night. I didn’t want to see her. Just habit, I guess. I was halfway down her block before I knew what I was doing.” Marty watches Rust’s fingers twist around his cigarette, and doesn’t respond. Marty has some truly fantastic sex with Maggie when the girls are both gone one night, and it’s all good. Steady, the way Marty likes it.  Smooth sailing. 

A few weeks later they’re staking out a house at night and it’s  been two hours of absolutely nothing. Marty finds himself staring at Rust’s profile, at Rust’s fingers absently tracing his lips as he stares out at the dark house. It’s not that it’s so distracting as all that, but the street’s been quiet for hours and there’s no sign of movement from the house. What the hell else is Marty supposed to be watching? 

All signs of that day tracking down info on Fontane have been erased except for a patch of skin above Rust’s eye that’s lighter than the area around it. The scab is only recently gone, and his skin hasn’t had time to soak up any sun. Marty meant to forget about that day entirely, but he watches Rust’s thumb drag over his lower lip and finds that he remembers more than he’d like. 

Marty clears his throat and turns around to dig through the backseat. “You want coffee?” he asks, finding the thermos. 

“I’m good,” Rust replies, barely glancing over. Marty unscrews the lid and drinks half a cup in one long gulp, then puts it away again. He finds himself tapping on the steering wheel. The car feels too small. Now Rust is looking at him. 

“Marty,” Rust says, but this time it’s almost a question. Marty looks over, not at Rust’s eyes but at his mouth, and he reaches out for Rust’s tie, pulling him forward to bite at his mouth, suck hard on his lower lip. Marty swears he hasn’t been thinking about this, but the very effort of not thinking about it makes it all the better now. Rust resists him for a moment, pulling away and pushing Marty back to see his face. 

“Come on,” Marty whines, on edge because it can’t be just him. This thing makes no sense to him, but Rust knew what was happening without a word last time, and he feels so fucking good under Marty’s hands. Marty doesn’t want to wait, doesn’t want to think about this or God forbid talk about it, and the longer Rust stares, the more Marty feels panic setting in. He shoves Rust’s arms away and pulls him in again, and this time Rust lets out a breath with a groan in it and kisses Marty back. Rust draws his knee up so he can lean over better, threads his hands through Marty’s hair and tugs him into a better angle. Marty grabs at Rust’s arms, slides his hand down to Rust’s ass, feels where his thigh muscles strain from the position. 

Rust’s breath is hot and loud in his ear, and his hands are on Marty’s belt, undoing Marty’s fly. Rust goes down on him, mouth wet and perfect, and Marty’s whole body jerks, half in panic, half in pleasure. The pleasure wins out and he groans, eyes slipping closed, fingers scraping against Rust’s skull. It doesn’t take long until he comes with a curse, body arching up away from the seat. Rust’s hands press him back down. When he opens his eyes, it’s still Rust there leaning over him. The panic hits him again, hard, and he leans back in his seat with a jerk.  Rust looks up at him, laughing a bit. “Alright?” he asks. Then he frowns. “Marty?”

He shoves Rust back, pulling up his pants with one hand while he fumbles for the door with the other. Rust falls back easily, putting his hands up where Marty could see, if he was looking. “Marty, what the fuck—” he hears dimly, but then he’s slammed the car door behind him, and he’s walking.

He finds a bar a few blocks away and drinks until he stops asking himself what he was thinking and starts asking what Rust was about. Then he keeps drinking right through until all the whirling arguments in his head are silenced. He stays until they kick him out, then takes a cab home. He crawls into bed next to Maggie’s sleeping form, and has never been so grateful to lose consciousness. 

Rust brings his car by the next morning, but Marty tells Maggie he’s sick and not going to work. It’s half true, anyway. He hasn’t been this hungover in a few years now, and the feeling of overwhelming cowardice isn’t helping his stomach any. 

He immediately realizes his mistake when Maggie sighs in irritation and says, “Guess I’ll drive him back to his truck, then,” and stalks out of the room again. 

Marty almost goes out to stop her, stop the two of them, but then he’s making a run for the bathroom instead. He heaves into the toilet and can only think to plead dully,  Don’t talk, just please don’t talk. He hasn’t been back to bed long when Maggie comes back with a glass of orange juice. Well. It’s not like Rust would come out any better in an account of last night, but also Maggie probably wouldn’t bring him juice for a hangover if she thought he was a homo. 

All she says is, “He looks worse than you. What’d you do to him?”

Marty drinks the juice very slowly, trying to silence all of the ways he’s not going to answer that question, and Maggie shakes her head. “Fine. Take a shower, Marty. You’re a mess.”

 

Marty hunches over his coffee. He’s staring at some paperwork, but he might as well be staring through it. Rust is seated across from him, and Marty can’t hear the clacking of his keyboard, the shuffle of papers, and it’s driving him crazy, because what the hell is he doing over there? Carla appears in front of Marty’s desk with a memo in one hand. “Female, approximately forty years of age, strangled to death and found behind the jogging path. No witnesses. You boys are up.” Marty fumbles for an excuse, but before he can come up with one she’s laid the paper neatly on his keyboard between his hands and walked off again. 

He can feel Rust looking at him, and after a moment Rust stands and pulls his jacket off the back of his chair. He stares at Marty for a minute, then comes around the desk. “I can take it on my own,” he says, poker faced, and Marty can feel the room start to look their way. He stands, grabbing the memo and his keys in one hand, his jacket with the other. He follows Rust out of the room and down the stairs, through the parking lot to the car. He can hear his blood rushing in his eardrums. He expects Rust to stop at any step, but Rust just slides into the passenger seat without a word. 

Marty gets in and pulls the door shut after him, but he sits with his hand on the key. “Go ahead,” he says. Whatever high minded shit Rust has to say on the matter, he’ll take it now. He can feel his heart beating faster, spoiling for a fight. Marty’s the one with something to lose, here. Marty actually has respect at work, and Marty has a wife and kids. What does Rust have, anyway? Not a woman, not any damn back up that doesn’t come from Marty himself, so it’s not like he has any right to drag Marty down into his mess. 

“What,” Rust says. 

“Whatever bullshit you’re gonna say, say it,” Marty snaps. He can feel Rust looking at him, and finally he turns his head, glaring. 

Rust isn’t looking at him at all. He’s staring at his own knee, tracing tiny shapes with his fingertips and looking exhausted. He shakes his head slightly. His mouth works, like he’s going to say something, and then he just looks towards his window, like always. “No,” he says after another long moment. “Ain’t no point, is there?”

Marty rolls his shoulders, and puts the car in drive. “Fucking A,” he mutters. 

 

The body is tangled among the leaves, dark bruises staining her neck and forearms. She’s otherwise untouched, was mostly healthy before her demise. “Husband or boyfriend, easy bet.” Rust’s pen scratches at his ledger. “We ID her, we’ll find him quick enough.” Marty, leaning against a tree, doesn’t reply. Rust glances up at him, and continues his study in silence. 

Prints on the body come back negative, and no one reports her missing. The case lingers. 

 

Marty’s in Salter’s office, running down the month’s open cases, when he floats the idea of picking up a new partner. 

Salter’s forehead creases. “Cohle going somewhere?”

“Naw, just,” Marty rubs his thumb over a chip in his coffee mug. “We got a whole batch of new guys joined up, thought maybe they could use some seasoning, is all.” He raises the mug to his lips, dropping his gaze from Salter’s suspicious stare. 

“You two got problems?” he asks. “No one would blame you but Marty, I gotta tell you, I don’t know who else would take him.”

“No,” Marty says hurriedly. “It ain’t like that. Forget I said anything. Just trying to be helpful, is all.”

“Yeah,” Salter says slowly. “Well, I need the help, I’ll ask for it, yeah?”

Marty’s standing at the vending machine of all things, when Rust finds him the next afternoon. 

“What are you doing?” 

Marty looks up, and stops trying to jam a dollar bill into the recalcitrant slot. “What’s it look like?” he asks, but then he takes in Rust’s eyes, and straightens. 

“You trying to get rid of me?” Rust demands. 

Marty swallows, his stomach going leaden. “I was just asking,” he says in his most reasonable voice. “Seeing if maybe there weren’t some opportunities out there. We been paired up a while, it wouldn’t be the worst idea to try something new.”

Rust steps closer, the motion jerky. “Everyone else here hates my fucking guts. Who do you think is going to work with me, you decide we’re done?”

Marty doesn’t know when that became his responsibility, and the thought that it might be is terrifying. “Maybe you could try being a little more pleasant to be around.” He’s not expecting it when Rust shoves him up against the wall, holding him with his forearm across Marty’s chest. 

“I’ve got the fucking job, man, and only the job,” Rust says fiercely. “I don’t ask you for nothing else, I’m letting you work out whatever shit it is you’re working through, but leave me the damned job.”

Marty pushes him off, causing them both to stumble just as one of the janitors comes around the corner. Rust turns and disappears back down the hall. Marty stands, rubbing the inside of his shoulder where Rust’s elbow had dug in. 

 

There’s a round of promotions for some of the guys and Marty goes out for drinks with them afterwards to celebrate. He stops back by the office to pick up notes for his court appearance the next morning. It’s late, and he expects the place to be empty but Rust is there, smoking and staring at his casework. Marty hesitates in the doorway but Rust cranes his head around and spots him, and Marty continues in to their desk. 

Rust doesn’t acknowledge him further and Marty paws through his files. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Rust pulls out another cigarette and flicks his lighter. “Can’t say we missed you,” Marty says, before the silence can get too thick.

“I despise every single person at this miserable place,” Rust points out. 

Marty rolls his eyes.  Rust Cohle, people person of the year. “This is a recent development?”

Rust’s eyes are tracking him now. “Yeah,” he says, and Marty’s jaw hardens at the implication in that look. Rust’s tie is loose, and the line of his throat is mesmerizing. Marty grabs his notes and leaves. 

 

Marty doesn’t even know how it happens the next time, just that Rust is standing there in his undershirt, pulling a towel out of his locker, and Marty finds himself staring at the ink on his forearm, the stubble on his jaw, and then Marty has his hands on Rust’s lean hips, is pushing him back to suck on the hard cord of his neck. The last few weeks have been awful, and he wants to feel good, just for a few fucking minutes. Rust groans and puts his head back for a brief moment before he brings his hands up to Marty’s chest and shoves him backwards. 

“What—”

“No.” Marty’s seen Rust angry plenty of times but it occurs to him only now that it’s rarely been directed at him. “You fucking moron. You don’t know how to step out on your marriage without torpedoing your whole goddamn life. The fuck should I help you with that?”

Marty’s fists clench at his sides, his voice going loud in anger.  Motherfucker’s gonna talk to him about marriage? “My life is fine. What gives you any right to comment—”

“Spare me the self-righteous bullshit. I was there in ninety-five, and I’m the one gonna catch the fallout this time. I know your fucking life. And I want to work a damn case without you tearing down the walls of your life every time you get your dick sucked.”

Marty punches him without pausing for thought. It jerks Rust around, and he slaps the lockers hard to catch himself. He pushes himself back upright but doesn’t come at Marty, and Marty stands where he is, breathing hard and clenching and unclenching his fist. 

Rust doesn’t turn around. His shoulders rise and fall, and then straighten. “Don’t fucking touch me again,” he says, and stalks off towards the showers. 

Marty is long gone by the time he gets out. 

The next week, Rust gets called away for an interrogation, some drug store robbery gone bad, and Marty is happy to have him gone. He comes back from the interview dragging up the Lange case from the depths of history, wants to make something of a nothing prison suicide, but Marty doesn’t follow him down that rabbit hole. He’s gone a lot after that, starts running down cases without Marty, and Marty doesn’t say anything, stays the fuck out of his business.  It’s fine. Whatever Rust is up to, Marty’s holding steady. That’s why a man has a family, to keep him grounded from shit like that. It’s all gonna be fine.


End file.
